The Extrication of Insanity
by littlexkiller
Summary: Psychological/Uni AU: The Doctor and Clara have been married for a year, and decide to return to university and get their PhDs in Gestalt and Humanistic Psychology respectively. Professor Ausculta Nimius is the long-suffering, dual-sided supervisor of their riskiest experiment yet - the time it takes a young girl to go clinically insane. Except Sara isn't the only one going mad.
1. Interview

_**A/N: Thanks for reading guys. Thanks for the support during my hiatus, thanks for every request to beta your story, for every long and emotional review you've given, for every one of your stories you've asked me to read, for all the begging for sequels to some of my fics. This is going to be a little different to my usual style – not much of a style aha. I'm all over the place with concepts and ideas. That being said, this fic means a lot to me. I'm very familiar with therapy and experiments, and what it feels like to be analysed every second of the day. I want you all to see past the scary stigmas drawn up around psychosis – that you're not all safe from yourselves – and that we are not above anyone else based on our physical, mental or spiritual stability. TL;DR: pay attention to everything, because most likely it will not be said twice and will probably also be important.  
**_

* * *

**February 29****th****, 2008**

_Clara_

My hands shake as I touch the doorknob apprehensively. Surely I shouldn't be the nervous one; it's the subject's job to be nervous. Not that nerves could change the poor girl's situation._ Sara_, the Doctor said her name was. _Sara Jaime Price_. I twist the stupid chunk of metal and stride in, smiling at the pale, mousy brunette preteen, although my hands clutch the clipboard like a lifeline. She reminds me of myself when I was twelve – she even has a white toy bunny. That makes me uncomfortable, considering what we're going to do to her. _With her_, I correct myself – but it's not convincing. Neither the Doctor nor I have any intentions of joining in this particular experiment.

She's smiling. She has no reason to smile, but she's smiling anyway. Smiling to be polite? Cheerful? Or is she hiding something? The Doctor squeezes my hand lightly, and a faint smile warms my face. All will be determined in this interview, surely.

* * *

**February 28****th****, 2008**

_Professor Ausculta Nimius_

My face is not what it used to be. Even as I pull and stretch the loosening folds, the skin does not bounce back to what it was. I can understand why it makes other women sad. It's basically a metaphor – even as you mold your features and carefully arrange your limbs, everything still falls mockingly back to the way it is. I wonder if women would age less in space, with no gravity. Would we age at all, with no opposing force to our skin's natural elasticity? Bone fragility would probably still occur, alongside weight gain and greying hair – alas, I must not think of such vain matters. This is my crucifix – aesthetic beauty I can never attain.

I'm still scrawling diagrams I have trouble understanding myself on the blackboard as my two PhD students run in; Clara barely managing to seat herself without spilling her coffee and the Doctor checking his watch with a murderous expression. _It's her fault they're late_, I observe. The eccentric young couple look up nervously, and I shrug nonchalantly at them. I don't really mind, in all honesty. They're both keen as anything for me to be supervising their experiments for their theses: Clara's studying humanistic psychology, while her husband studies Gestalt psychology. Both fascinating branches of the subjective science; also quite different to one another. Their chosen fields do reflect them as people. Humanistic Psychology puts a strong focus on who we are as humans – what isolation does to us, how we feel about the threat of death, what drives us. Gestalt, however, focuses on the main impression of something upon the mind. The image, as opposed to all the different things that contribute to it. Many consider it a kind of purism in these studies – but it _i__s_ important to remember what you're actually trying to find. I myself specialised in both of these fields.

Clara wants to know how long it takes to make someone go crazy. All symbolisms and colloquial uses of that phrase aside; it's a dangerous and fascinating thesis. The Doctor's thesis sort of revolves around the success of hers: he wants to know what it does to the subject as a person. He will be keeping track of the subject's generalised reactions via observation and subject survey, while Clara will be speaking with her directly about how the subject feels about all of it. They don't know, but I've informed the other psychology professors about this particular experiment. It can go one of two ways: it can change everything we know about mental stability, or it can become the biggest intrusion of human rights known to man.

Thank God for contracts.

* * *

_The Doctor_

I frown a little at Clara, but can't stay mad with her for long as she sips her coffee, blissfully unaware of the froth moustache coating her upper lip. I don't want to tell her, for fear of breaking that delightful image, although she'll be mortified later.

Professor Nimius finishes her complex reaction flow chart, and I immediately grin at her. She's a lovely thirty-something-year-old woman with auburn hair, supernaturally pale skin, wide blue eyes and a sharp jawline. There's always some air of dissatisfaction about her – something hidden and quite sad. But I know better than to ask a psychologist what's on their mind.

"We're starting tomorrow," Clara bursts suddenly, proudly. Trust Clara to pop that one out of the ground. I'm still not sure about this, but she's dead set on it. We're going to make a twelve-year-old girl we met last week go insane, and we're going to put it all down for science.

Nimius raises an eyebrow in quiet delight. "I'm looking forward to your first report," she tells us encouragingly, brushing chalk off her white blazer. The blazer that always looks like a lab coat. "Thanks," I murmur awkwardly. I don't know what to say, but Clara probably will.

"How was your weekend, Professor?" she chirps happily, and I squeeze her hand in gratitude. Clara always saves us from awkward silences.

"It was great, actually! Went on another date with that guy from the tea shop, the one I was talking about on Wednesday with the eyebrow piercing?"

"Oh yeah! How'd it go?"

"It was wonderful, he's such a sweetheart..."

I start to tune out with polite intentions. Clara's much closer with Professor Nimius than I am. She's much closer with everybody than I am. Must be that magical charm she has. The same charm that snagged me for life.

* * *

_Clara_

"So what's she like? Your subject for the experiment?" Ausculta asks us.

She doesn't usually get this keen about things. Maybe it's that new lad she's seeing.

"Well, the Doctor knows more about her than I do..." I trail, nudging my husband meaningfully. He just shifts uncomfortably in the chair next to me and licks his lips.

"Her name's Sara Jaime Price. Twelve years old, brunette, small, orphaned at the age of six. She remembers," he states somewhat emotionlessly.

"Ah," says Ausculta, who then returns to preparing the blackboard for her next lecture.

The Doctor is nothing like he used to be. Before we were married on that cool day in autumn, he was loud. Loud, clumsy, and far too brilliant for his own good. He still wears his signature bowtie and tweed, but not with the same confidence. Ever since we established our shared theses, he's been unusually quiet. Shy, almost. As we pass through the mahogany door to our empty Victorian house, I start to wonder if I've done this to him. If being married to me means suffering silently.

I punch the bedroom wall, and it doesn't hurt.


	2. Isolation

**February 29****th****, 2008**

_Sara_

She's nervous, this Clara woman. More nervous than my father in the hospital waiting room that awful night my mother died. Clara looks so much like her. Sometimes I'm thankful that I was too young to emotionally process it.

She's psychoanalysing me - I can feel it. Even as the Doctor moves beside her and squeezes her hand reassuringly, her knuckles go white on the clipboard. Has she found something that's made her uneasy? Already?

I don't know if we're gonna get along.

"Name?"

"Sara Jaime Price."

"How old are you, Sara?"

"Twelve years today, actually."

"Happy Birthday."

"Thanks."

"Got questions?"

"Not in particular. I read and signed your contract already. So bloody long, that was. You're Clara, right? Clara Oswald?"

"Yeah."

"Nice name, Clara. You should keep it."

The curiosity between us is palpable. So much of who we are reminds each other of ourselves. The Doctor scribbles some things down while she shifts uncomfortably in front of me, her crimson cashmere coat ruffling against her stockings. Something about her is young, daring even, yet her clothes and manner were so undeniably wholesome. Like the women in my church, except she's less overtly kindhearted. She's... _real_.

Just like me.

* * *

_Clara_

I try to remain as confident and nonchalant as possible as I fill out the documents in front of me with her information, but there's an undeniable chemistry between our characters. Not even mentioning the physical resemblance; Sara has a kind of sharpness about her, alert if you will. Like me when I was that age.

The questions are a lot more personal than I thought they'd be when I wrote them up.

_You're an orphan, right? How do you feel about that?_

_What did your mum and dad do?_

_How much do you remember?_

_Would you consider yourself a social person?_

_Introvert or extrovert? Or a bit of both?_

_What music do you listen to?_

_Favourite kind of movie?_

_What do you like in a person?_

Her answers were both average and extraordinary.

_Yeah, orphaned at six years old. I'm okay with it – stuff happens and we all move on._

_Mum worked in this really cute French bakery down the road; it's gone now. Dad was a marine engineer. Oil and gas industry. We lived decently._

_Not heaps, just that they really loved each other, and that I loved them. _

_I really don't like the people in this generation. But I can play friendly when I want to. Obviously._

_Introvert._

_I don't listen to much music anymore. There are too many memories involved with rhythmic expression._

_I like psychological thrillers. Anything brainy and alluring, really. That's why I signed up for this – I want to see how long it takes me. And I wanted to meet some real science people like yourselves._

_I like honesty, kindness, and a hunger for knowledge. Baking ability much appreciated._

"Baking?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow. She grins sheepishly.

"I like souffles."

"No way! I _love_ souffles!"

The Doctor shakes his head knowingly, and I stick my tongue out at him, much to the delight of Sara.

I think we're going to get along.

* * *

**March 1st, 2008 – Isolation Day 1**

_The Doctor_

Experiments start today. Meeting her yesterday was like meeting a new friend – like polite small talk with a young relative. One could almost forget the real reason we were acquainted at all.

I'm not feeling very well, so I take a run to dear old Rothwell University, where Clara and I met doing our Bachelor of Psychology and Honours. Professor Nimius is already in the lecture theatre.

I push the doors open timidly, and the creaking echoes around the theatre painfully loud. She turns with a little smile, her auburn curls softening the sharp lines of her face.

"I thought I'd see you this morning," she states with amusement, the place by her eyes crinkling as her smile gets brighter.

"I'm nervous."

"I know you are."

Yes she does. She knows everything about her students. Almost too much.

"Does Clara know you're here?" the professor asks with real concern. I shake my head, and she tuts with mock condescension.

"Still sleeping," I murmur. She nods knowingly while I smile at the thought of her still curled up in our bed. Despite the nature of her – _our_ – experiment, I still love her. And hopefully she still loves me.

* * *

_Clara_

Two days of isolation. Just like the contract said. I keep trying to swallow the unease, but like a monster, it refuses to settle. Even when I take the anti-anxiety pills, my stomach churns like an ice cream machine – although the result of this will not be sweet.

We're going to keep her alone in the observation room with no light or sound stimulus for two days, with only a small night vision candid camera in a small chip in the wall. There's nothing right about this experiment. _For science_, I remind myself.

_For the future._

* * *

_Sara_

It's a terrifying room. Well, not _scary_ in the traditional sense; but empty. The walls aren't even the stock-standard hospital white, they're grey. Hollow, lonely grey. Maybe I'm just in the habit of depressing interpretations. Maybe it really is that depressing. Or both.

There are no windows here, and when Clara shuts the door suddenly, it goes pitch black. I scream, and it echoes slightly with no other surfaces to absorb the sound. I hear the drumming of fingertips across a keyboard down the hallway – they're taking notes already.

It's so cold in here, in terms of temperature and ambience. I can hear my heart beating in the silence.

A steaming bowl of chicken and pea soup is pushed through the door flap, and I wonder if I can fit through**,** before deciding it physically impossible and taking my lunch.

I get some extra sleep. I do some stretching that my foster sister Mollitia taught me from her gymnastics. I sit and think about life and the people in mine. _Who really matters? Who doesn't? Who _should_ matter? _

Dinner is bland carrots and roast potato with rosemary and thyme. I feel... impulsive. Agitated. Like boredom times ten.

I curl up with Bluebell as my pillow to get some rest before tomorrow comes.

I have the same nightmare where Mother is stabbed in the pregnant stomach – strange. I never got a sibling. I don't even remember her being pregnant.

Have I forgotten that much?


	3. Observation

**March 2nd, 2008 – Isolation Day 2, First Observation**

_Sara_

I shouldn't have gone to sleep panicked yesterday. The Bible said something like 'Don't let the sun set on your anger' because it feeds into your subconscious during the night. Except I'm not angry, I'm just... restless. Like after Mum died, and they thought I was depressed, so they gave me lots of different coloured tablets to take in the morning and at night. They made me feel _crazy_.

That's how I feel now. Impulsive. Trapped. Like I could do anything, even though there's nothing I can do. I can see some light under the doorframe now; judging from how awake I am, it's somewhere close to noon. Like I'd know how to judge time in this state. I try to pray for a bit about my sanity, but this isn't what it's about. Maybe my beliefs will compromise the experiment. Maybe it's a variable that needs to be controlled. That, or it's just another aspect of me for Clara and the Doctor to watch and observe.

Both of those options make me cringe.

The door swings open, and the cacophonous creaking makes me flinch. I have not heard anything except for the sound of my own shuddering breath and various organ functions for the past day and night. Clara appears in a neat red dress with the kind of Peter Pan collar I've always been fond of wearing myself, clean black tights, a black leather jacket and velvet (or suede?) black flats with a braid embellishment bordering the toes. Her clothes comfort me.

A stimulus. A luxury.

The questions seem to come one by one, but all at once, and the answers spill out like I'd been speaking for the past two days straight. How does that work? My natural ability to fake nonchalance, probably. The things isolation does to a person. You learn so much about yourself when there's no one else to distract you from you.

"Sorry for that. How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yes. Fine."

"How did you pass the time in here? All... by yourself."

"Well, it wasn't too bad. I thought about existence, did some stretching. Prayed to protect my sanity."

She slips a notepad out of her jacket pocket and scribbles something down.

"Christian? Or Catholic?"

"Christian. My foster family took me from a church-run orphanage. They were really nice people, the ones who looked after us. Always caring, discerning, and kind."

More pen scratching paper. Her writing looks positively regal from here, but it sounds vicious. Depraved.

I need to stop thinking such negative things.

"That's lovely, I like Christian people. The actual Christian _Christian_ ones though, like you. Not the bible-basher types."

"Mhmm."

"So you think you went okay? Two days and a night in this big, dark room, all by yourself?"

"Okay firstly – it's been a day and a half, judging from the light through the window in that room opposite to us, which I presume is a bathroom, what with the presence of a toilet. Secondly, it's only big relative to my somewhat unimpressive physical stature. But yeah, I think I'm fine. That means I _am_ fine, right?"

Clara frowns a little bit, then pulls and loops her pen to make a good three lines of those gracefully curved letters. She clicks the pen and shoves it unceremoniously back in her pocket with the notepad. It irritates me slightly that she hasn't shut it properly.

"You keep telling me that you're okay. Is that because you don't feel okay?"

That one hits me like a softball to the head (a sensation I am familiar with from my less agile school days).

"I guess. That would be a reasonable deduction."

"It would."

But I do feel okay. I have to be okay. I'm not hurting anybody else, so that's okay.

She shuts the door behind her, and once the gentle footsteps fade, tears roll down my cheeks because I have to give myself a reminder of who she is.

_A psychologist, not a friend. Never a friend,_ I tell myself.

_Certainly not yours._


	4. Obstinacy

_**A/N: Thank you for reading everyone. I always appreciate coming home to reviews :) In this chapter, things get a bit emotional and we explore Professor Nimius and Clara's relationship, as well as the state of Clara's marriage. There is also a lot of feels-charged flashbacking on Sara's part, plus a present day **__**intro **_(technically slightly in the future, set on Easter Friday) looking back on the main storyline. Enjoy!

* * *

**April 18th, 2014 – In Memoriam **

_Clara_

Looking back now, the day after the isolation assessment makes me the most remorseful. I've been trained for years and years, not just to not make promises I can't keep, but to not make promises at all.

So naturally I promised her life away in words that told her I was saving it.

* * *

**March 3rd, 2008 – Denial & Obstinacy at Lunch**

_The Doctor_

"If at any time, any time at all you don't feel well - you have to tell me, okay?" Clara whispers, the syllables floating across a scarlet table at the most decent cafe on the street we live on. Slightly louder this time, she adds, "I can make you better if you do."

Sara smiles politely and nods her head in a dutiful manner. That nod carries the weight of three years in St. Peter's Orphanage.

She doesn't eat much. That describes both Clara and Sara today. Understandable, taking into account what's happened in the last forty-eight hours. Or rather, what hasn't happened at all. Exactly that; nothing's happened.

But it feels like everything has happened.

You see, Clara wanted to do the experiment a little differently. We were going to do the experiments with her, separately, recording our own feelings, but Professor Nimius felt we should 'remain objective' and something like 'that's what the subject is for.' I wonder if she just wanted us to watch this poor girl go.

* * *

_Sara_

"If there was anything you could change about your life, what would you change?"

The small talk tumbles from my mouth neatly, but with little control; like a gymnast after a long day of training, following instructions and safety practices. Do what the instructor says in that inspiringly bright, happy voice, or get hurt. The instructor of society. I have no idea where this desire to be sociable comes from. Regardless of my confusion, they smile together, and it's a lovely sight.

"I'm very happy with my life at the moment. Especially with starting something as monumental as these assessments," says she.

"I don't think I'd change any of my decisions so far," says he.

I know exactly what a sadly accidental lie looks like. You never think that you're lying.

_(__"I'll be back soon, once I get the milk," Mum said. "For heaven's sake child, you know your silly foreshadowing doesn't mean anything. No one's going to kill me in the street, okay? Don't let your father drink anything in the cabinet until you hear me come through that door."__)_

Clara turns away from her husband to face me again. "What about you? Would you change anything?" she asks me delicately, like a child discovering a fallen flower on the pavement while walking to school. An admittedly odd way to think of yourself. The petals wither away with the distraction device in my words that follow.

"I think we learn from our past and apply it to the future. I can't say I don't appreciate knowledge," I philosophise smoothly.

It isn't _technically_ a lie.

About to say something, she makes a humming sound that's uncertain, like a bee that's unsure whether to go for the red or the blue flower. This metaphorical bee chooses another flower altogether. It is an artificial flower, and a waste of pollen. Clara says nothing until we get to Rothwell University's School of Psychology building.

There is a young woman with hair like wildfire sitting on the lecturer's demonstration bench, looking up at us through the most prosecuting silver-blue irises I have ever seen. The name plaque boasts _Prof. Ausculta Nimius_ in elegant gold lettering. I smile despite my nerves, and when she smiles back with those fluorescent teeth, I notice just how unnaturally tight her face is. It looks like the work of many anti-aging creams and at least five botox injections. Those people frighten me with their insecurity. It's quite inescapable, that kind of self-loathing. My mother was like that with her work at the bakery. My father, like me, was similarly frightened. It's not that we were afraid of the unfamiliar, far from it - we were afraid because we didn't know how to stop the unfamiliar from destroying her. He turned to alcohol; I turned away.

"Hi Ausculta," Clara chirps.

"Hello, Professor," the Doctor chimes shortly after.

There is no hint of our lies.

Smiles on, they greet her – Clara gives her that awkward hug usually reserved for those you're not sure you consider a friend, and the Doctor detachedly shakes her hand. I just nod awkwardly, like usual, before mumbling my name so quietly she asks me to repeat it. I do, with some annoyance.

"I'm _Sara Price_, Professor."

"It's a great pleasure to meet you... Sara."

I decide there and then that I don't like her that much. Her pleasant but somewhat airy voice in its somewhat nasal tones irks me. The Doctor turns curtly, murmuring something about having to call his sick aunt. Not having a good excuse to retract socially, I choose a random middle seat at the very back of the theatre, only vaguely hearing as Clara and the professor's voices start to attack each other.

"You're the one who suggested we take her all the way through adolescence."

"It was your decision."

"You know better. You're the one with three PhD's!"

"Look at her, she's fine."

"Well I am beginning to question your definition of 'fine' – can't you see her suffering? Mrs Park from St. Peter's said she was a bubbly, hard-working girl. Does she look _bubbly_ to you?"

"This is only the first of many assessments in your experiment, Clara. Don't give up because you doubt yourself."

"This isn't about me, Nim."

"Then who is it about? The Doctor?"

"It's _always_ been about the Doctor! Don't you pay attention?"

I'm witnessing something I probably shouldn't be, but I can't seem to drown out their voices.

"Of course I do. I simply saw the benefit in letting you admit it to yourself."

"Are you _psychoanalysing_ our relationship?"

"I have to. You're my best students, and I need you to be stable."

"God, to think I thought you actually cared."

"Let's not get overly emotional, Clara. We need to find the cause of the stress."

"Well I don't want to! Stop being my psychologist and start being my friend!"

I close my eyes. One inhales sharply, the other exhales in exasperation. This isn't the first time they've had that argument, clearly. I pop in my earbuds and turn up the volume, bopping my head to the bass of a _Sleigh Bells_ song. Pretending to remain oblivious to their stares, I mouth the looped words over and over again, even drumming a bit of the beat sequence on the back of the chair in front of me. The Doctor re-enters with a small apology and a vague hand gesture which assures us his poor aunt is 'kind of okay'.

In the Doctor's presence, both women automatically perk up visibly and start smiling and talking like nothing had happened. This confuses me all the way back home.

When I ask her about it, she just smiles and tells me I'm still a bit too young to understand. A part of me wants to call her right back over to my isolation room, now furnished with a fresh coat of blue paint, a simple single bed, a packed bookshelf and a lamp shaped like a gramophone. I want to tell her that being too young to understand pain isn't the problem. Rather, I understand too much.


	5. Under The Skin

**A/N: A sad one with big flashbacks.**

* * *

_Clara_

"Now listen to me very carefully," I tell Sara sternly, "Don't touch the walls, glass, number pads, red buttons, other people, their belongings, or the needles. Okay? You can't touch them because it'll piss someone off or set off an alarm."

She nods quickly. I trust her to conduct herself safely in a mental hospital environment.

Not like she hasn't been there before, I suppose.

* * *

_Sara_

I never liked hospitals. I hate the smell of highly alkaline disinfectant, and I don't like the nurses or the doctors . Especially in the mental ward. Especially Nurse Joy. What kind of a name is that anyway? Like the damn Pokémon character.

* * *

**September 26****th****, 2004 – Your Mother Will Be Away For A While  
**

"_Now sweetie, don't go near the walls, glass, number pads, red buttons, other people, their belongings, or the needles. It's very important that you listen to me in order to safely visit your mummy, okay? Run along dear."_

I hated everything about that woman's stupidly pleasant voice, her fuschia-painted smile and her radiant qualities. Everything my mother couldn't be.

I remember running down that hallway as a little eight-year-old girl, with the tint of childhood blonde still catching light in my hair, but all the childhood vanished from my heart.

I remember the distinct accusation of screams and a tidal wave of creative cursing; bodies slamming into metal doors, desperate hands rattling bars.

I remember my mother crying the second I appeared in front of her, and sticking my hand through the bars to comfort her. She looked delirious, with glassy eyes and gaunt cheekbones. She yanked my arm through the bars so my head smacked into them, laughing coldly the whole time.

Nurse Joy came running and took me away with that same pleasant tone and fuschia smile.

They don't let nurses wear fuschia lipstick anymore. Apparently red-toned colours trigger panic in the subconscious. Stupid. Pink wasn't what was sending people crazy.

* * *

**March 12th, 2008 – You Will Be Like Them**

When I was little, I always wondered why the people in mental asylums never seemed to get better. _Is this all they will become? Does nothing else develop from here?_ I thought. Half right, I guess.

In mental institutions they will only tell you things they see will be informative _and _beneficial to your mental state. If it's just informative, or just beneficial, you're not told. Most of your expectations are built on careful lies that were placed to guide you onto a better path that's meant to take you to 'the happy place'. The only people you converse with are similarly detrimented inmates or your psychiatrist. Aside from your consistent 'recovery process' check-ups and the odd game of chess with foam pieces so you can't hurt yourself with them, there's taking your drugs and sometimes sleeping.

This is the same hospital that Mrs Park said held my father the first time Mum attacked him. It is also the hospital that held my mother after she finally killed him. By no means did I want him to die, as such – but think of the situation like euthanasia. I much preferred that he escaped his world of fear than live in ours, which was much the same anyway.

My mother always frightened me slightly. Of course I loved her, with her gentle blue eyes and forgiving smile, but I was obviously and painfully biased. Now I'm older, I know she was crazy. Which is kind of why I wanted to do this. To see if I'll be the same. To become the same.

That's what I deserve, surely? She wouldn't have said it so many times if I wasn't.

_("Stupid girl," she whispered harshly at me through the bars, "I hope that makes you properly crazy too."_

_I couldn't see anything except her snarling face and the rainbow spots swimming in front of me. My head throbbed like a subwoofer at a teen rave, and I was fairly sure the warmth pooling down on my skin was blood. I checked with a trembling hand; it was. Nurse Joy dragged me away by the blood-stained hand in what felt like slow motion. She asked me if I was okay. I shrugged and said I was used to it)._

And Mrs Park's daughter Narae had the audacity and the naivety to tell me it was no wonder as to why I'd had so much therapy. But I hear she's a finalist in some talent show on Korean television now. That sounds nice.

I'm getting carried away again. Thoughts are doing hardly anything to distract me from the eternal flow of curses from the skinny crackhead-type next door and the sporadic laughter and crying of the young woman next to me. I decide that I'll try to talk to her at lunchtime. But that isn't very introverted of me. Perhaps I've misjudged myself. Or maybe I'm just that lonely.

I'm not really sure.


End file.
